MY SECOND JOURNEY TO THE EAST
As I have published several books about this my second journey to the
East, and as these, being translated into various languages, have become
public property over the civilised world, I intend in these memoirs to
touch only upon such points as are of a purely personal character, and
could therefore find no place in the general accounts of my travels
written for the world at large. And I want to lay particular stress upon
such details as led to the gradual transformation of the Stambul Effendi
into the confirmed Asiatic and the mendicant Dervish. In their light my
many strange adventures will appear but the natural outcome of my
career. This I consider the more necessary as it will enable my readers
to note both the psychical transitions and the ethical and social
influences to which the constant and intimate intercourse with the
natives necessarily subjected me. It will help to show how, in a
comparatively short time, changes were effected which even I myself
cannot quite account for.
After leaving the hospitable roof of Emin Mukhlis Pasha, the Governor of
Trebizond, I continued my journey to Persia in the company of a small
trading caravan. As I laboriously climbed up the Pontus mountain slope,
and watched the sea gradually receding in the distance, a feeling of
anxiety came over me, and for the first time I experienced that internal
struggle between the craving for adventure and a sickening dread of the
uncertainty and perilousness of my undertaking. It was springtime. The
glorious scenery and the charms of nature all along the road as I
ascended the Propontic mountain had well-nigh dispersed these dark
forebodings, and my enthusiasm had almost gained the day. But when at
night I had to put up at a dirty, loathsome caravansary, and after
spreading my carpet on the bare floor, tired out as I was with my first
ride, had to prepare my own frugal evening meal, the cold gravity of my
position overwhelmed me, and I realised for the first time the awful
difference between dark reality and rose-coloured imagination. My rice
was burnt, the fat rancid, and the bread one of the worst kinds I had
ever tasted in Turkey. My bed on the cold floor was anything but
comfortable, and when, in spite of all, I fell into a heavy sleep, I had
only the exhaustion after my first ride to thank for it. That first
long ride left its painful effects for two or three days. The stretch
between Trebizond and Erzerum, a foretaste of the long ride to
Samarkand, was altogether the most painful I have ever experienced; for
in the first place I had to ingratiate myself with my fellow-travellers,
mainly consisting of raw, dirty, fanatical mule-drivers, and, worst of
all, I had to get used to the vermin with which every night's lodging
swarmed. Arrived at Erzerum, where I enjoyed the hospitality of my
former principal, Hussein Daim Pasha, who here occupied the position of
military governor, I enjoyed a good rest. The kind-hearted man, an
enthusiastic religious mystic, was firmly convinced of the pious motives
of my journey to Bokhara, and both he and his adjutant, Hidayet Effendi,
instructed me for hours in the mysteries of the various orders, and
especially of the Nakish Bendi, to the grave of whose founder I was to
make a pilgrimage. It was during my stay at this house that I witnessed
quite an original use of superstition in the service of the law. One day
the Pasha lost a valuable diamond ring, and as he had not been out of
the house one might justly suppose that the ring would be found, unless
one of the numerous servants of the establishment had made away with it.
As all investigations were fruitless, Hidayet Effendi sent for a
celebrated wonder-working Sheikh, who squatted down in the middle of the
great entrance-hall, where all the servants were assembled. I
impatiently waited the issue of events. At last the Sheikh, sitting
cross-legged, produced from under his mantle a black cock, and holding
it in his lap he invited all the servants, each in turn, to come up to
him, stroke the cock softly and straightway put his hand into his
pocket; then, said the Sheikh, the cock, without any more ado, will
declare who is the thief by crowing. When all the servants had passed in
turn before the Sheikh and touched the cock, he told them all to hold
out their hands. All hands were black, with the exception of one, which
had remained white, and whose owner was at once designated as the thief.
The cock had been blackened all over with coal dust, and as the thief,
fearing detection, had avoided touching him, his hand had remained
white, and consequently his guilt was declared. The servant received his
punishment and the Sheikh his reward.
My sojourn in the house of the Pasha and in Erzerum generally, was very
pleasant and comfortable, but hardly a good preparation for my further
journey over the Armenian heights to the frontier of Persia, one of the
most troublesome étapes of Asiatic travel. The poor Armenian houses,
mostly underground holes, looking from the outside more like molehills
than anything else, consist of one apartment in which the inmates live,
crowded together with from ten to twenty buffaloes, and the first night
I spent in company with these evil-smelling animals, tormented by smoke
and heat and vermin, will ever remain vivid in my mind. The crisp
morning air of the high Armenian plateau acted like a tonic upon my
weakened nerves. I felt supremely happy and drank in the pure, keen air
with delight. One would like to shout for very joy if it were not for
the constant dread of an attack by the Kurds who make their home in
these Körogly passes, and are ever more keenly on the watch for small
caravans than even for single travellers.
It was here on the Dagar mountains that I had my first encounter with
the Kurdish robber hordes. It was my baptism of fire, but instead of
filling me with enthusiasm, a deathly cold shiver came over me when at
the request of my Armenian fellow-travellers I took up my pistol to act
the protector. The precious bales of goods of the Armenian merchants had
already been unloaded by the Kurds, and we stormed up the steep incline
to call the robbers to account. Bravery, quick decision, and contempt of
death are noble virtues, but one is not always born with them; they have
to be learned and practised. The bold front, the keen eye, and the blood
coursing wildly through one's veins are all symptoms of valour, but they
may also be those of a more or less reckless temper. Since that first
episode on the Dagar I have in my subsequent travels often been exposed
to attacks and surprises of various kinds, until at last I learned to
face all dangers boldly, and had no more fear of death. But I still hold
to my opinion, that heroes are not born but made, and that the most
timid home-lover can by a gradual process of compulsory self-defence
become a very lion of strength and valour. Thus and thus only is
produced that much-exalted virtue of personal courage and heroism. The
pressing need of self-preservation is the real source of all heroism,
and in the physically strong this psychological quality can hardly fail
to show itself.
As I crossed the Persian frontiers at Diadin, and actually found myself
in the land of Iran--the land which hitherto I had only viewed in the
light of poetic fancy--the bare and barren wilderness which met my eyes
added to my physical and mental sufferings, rudely tore away the last
vestige of the glamour which my imagination had woven round this
blissful spot. I was thoroughly disillusioned. Here I was, an Effendi,
the greatest monster in the eyes of the Shiite Persian, in virtue of my
antecedents, subject to scornful remarks, derisive laughter, and
continually exposed to gross insults; for the Persians on their native
soil are bold and audacious fanatics. As if I had not suffered enough of
this in my early youth! The Hydra of religious fury now attacked and
tormented me in a new form, and the "Segi Sunni!" ("Sunnitic dog!"), a
variant of the "Hep! Hep!" of former days, resounded day and night in my
ears. The villainy and knavery of the Persian merchants and Mollas were
not less offensive than the stones thrown by the Christian street-boys
and the invectives of the Catholic college instructors. But this trial
also I learned to overcome. Patience and endurance disarm the bitterest
opponent, and when in a melodious voice and with strict Shiite
modulation I recited a Sura from the Koran, or a passage from the
Mesnevi, the sacred books common to both sects, their anger subsided and
my fanatical fellow-travellers comforted themselves by saying, "He is
not quite lost yet, he may yet grow to be a good Mussulman," _i.e._, a
Shiite. As will appear from the following pages of this work, it was for
the most part religion, the product of Divine inspiration and the
supposed means for ennobling and raising mankind, which made me feel the
baseness of humanity most acutely; and from my cradle to my old age, in
Europe as well as in Asia, among those of highest culture, as well as
amid the crudest barbarism, I have found fanaticism and
narrow-mindedness, malice, and injustice emanating mostly from the
religious people, and always on behalf of religion!
Arrived on Persian soil, my material troubles and struggles were further
enhanced by physical sufferings. I shall never forget the impression
made upon me by the furtive looks of anger and disdain cast upon me by
the Persians I met in the streets or in the bazaar of Khoi. The national
language is Turkish there, but as soon as I opened my mouth my pure
Stambul accent at once betrayed my Sunnitic character. This ill-will is
a retribution for the insults and the chicanery to which the Shiite
strangers in Turkey are exposed, but I could not help asking myself,
"What have I done to these people? Have I in any way aided in preventing
Ali from succeeding to the Prophet?" But all speculations and arguments
were useless. I came in the character of an Effendi, and the profound
disgust which this word awakens in the Shiite mind accounted quite
sufficiently for all the insults I had to bear. Even for money these
fanatics would scarcely sell me anything. The question arose whether
Sunnites, like Christians, were to be accounted _nedjis_, _i.e._,
unclean, whom to touch is a sin; and it was only after prolonged and
violent discussions that I could pacify their scruples on this point. If
there had been a livelier intercourse between Turks and Persians I
should probably have had less to suffer, but I was the first private
Osmanli who, for many years, had travelled in Persia, and therefore I
must take weal and woe into the bargain. I was surprised to find that
the women were far more vehement in their expressions than the men; many
spat at me as they passed me on the road, giving expression to their
hatred by pithy oaths. Truly woman everywhere is more passionate than
man! Thanks to my excellent health and vigour, still further improved by
abnormal physical exertions, I was able to cope with these mental
distractions. I even enjoyed the excitement of them; and when at Tebris,
in the Emir caravanseray, I had for several days been an attentive
spectator from within my little cell, of the mad carryings-on of the
Persian traders, craftsmen, beggars, Dervishes, buffoons, singers, and
jugglers, I felt that I was gradually being transformed into an
Oriental, and that my existence as a poor traveller was quite bearable.
Exchanging my semi-European dress, piece by piece, for the long, wide
Persian garments, I gradually accomplished the metamorphosis of my
outward appearance; I was no longer conspicuous in a crowd. Once, as I
was loitering about in the courtyard of the caravanseray, I noticed
among the bargaining groups collected round the loaded and unloaded
beasts of burden a European, who while unpacking his bales was evidently
at a loss for a Turkish word. Impatiently he turned over the leaves of a
small octavo volume, and I was not a little amused to recognise in it my
own Turkish pocket dictionary printed in Pera many years ago. When the
merchant (he was a Swiss, a Mr. W., commission agent at Tebris), after a
fruitless search, put the little book impatiently aside with no very
complimentary remarks, I suddenly addressed him in German, remarking
that the writer of his little dictionary was not exactly a fool, only
that he had been looking in the wrong place. To be addressed in German
by a ragged semi-Turkish, semi-Persian individual in the bazaar at
Tebris was a little too much even for the equanimity of this son of
Mercury. We exchanged a few words, reproaches and irritation were
followed by apologies, and the end of the comical intermezzo was an
invitation to his house and lavish hospitality for a few days. Amusing
adventures of a similar nature befell me on other occasions, and it was
always and everywhere my linguistic skill, and the ease with which I
could reproduce foreign accents, intonations, and constructions, and in
many instances quote suitable maxims and passages of the Koran,
accompanied with the usual gesticulations, that took with my audience,
and made me pass for a native in spite of my foreign physiognomy.
I had noticed this with pleasure on the banks of the Bosphorus, and more
still on the first part of my journey in the interior of Asia. I could
not say that I was proof against all suspicion, for the typical
expression of the face always excited doubt, and was detrimental to me,
but in the variegated national mosaic of the West Asiatic world, where
types and races of all zones meet and mix in ever-varying amalgamation,
there language is everything and looks nothing; and when this language,
moreover, expresses respect for Allah and the Prophet, one becomes
incorporated _de jure et de facto_ in the all-encompassing bond of
religious community, and one ceases to be a foreigner.
And so my stay at the caravanseray of Tebris was full of curious
impressions and incidents. Sitting in my poor, bare little cell, I
watched for hours together the confused bustle of the bartering,
wrangling, shouting, singing, begging crowd in the court. Sometimes I
went out among them, spoke to one or another, talked about trade in its
various branches, and in the evening hours when it was comparatively
quiet in the caravanseray, sometimes, when I could not get out of it, I
joined in the conversation about sectarianism, politics, and other
matters. The merchant of the East is always a man of the opposition, for
he has much to suffer from anarchy and the _régime_ of absolutism, and
his open criticism has often surprised me.
After a prolonged stay in Tebris, I found myself at last in the saddle
again on the way to Teheran. The future appeared more hopeful, and the
success of my undertaking somewhat more certain. Instead of travelling
in the usual caravan I had joined a company of travellers who, although
natives of Sunnitic lands, Kurds and Arabs, wandered all over Iran in
Shiite disguise. Religion was their business--that is to say, they
travelled from village to village singing elegies (Rouzekhan), and daily
shed bucketfuls of tears in the commemoration of the tragic fate of the
martyrs Hasan and Husein, and then, after pocketing the shining gold
pieces, the disguised Sunnites laughed in their sleeve. Another kind of
these religion-traders occupied themselves with the expediting of
Persians, both living and dead, to the holy shrine at Kerbela. To the
former they served as guides on their pilgrimage, getting as much as
they could out of them, and secretly conniving with the marauding
Beduins, who attacked and stripped them of all they possessed. The
latter, _i.e._, the departed faithful worshippers of Ali, are
transported by them between four planks to Kerbela and Nedshef. In my
_Wanderings and Experiences in Persia_ I have attempted to describe such
a funeral caravan. It is the most awful and gruesome spectacle
imaginable, but it is a profitable trade; and when I travelled in
company with these gentlemen expeditioners, elegy-singers, and
Kerbela-pilgrims, I came to the conclusion that the juggling of the
pious in East and West, amongst Christians and Mohammedans, is all the
same. Here as there the maxim holds good: "_Mundus vult decipi--ergo
decipiatur_," only that the felicity of being deceived is in Asia far
more intense than with us in Europe.
In Asia the light of civilisation and revelation has as yet illumined
but a few. Scepticism has always been timid in the world of Islam, even
in the time of its glory, and now that poverty and misery reign supreme,
and the struggle for existence is almost the only thing thought of or
cared for, there is but little desire for metaphysical speculations;
people have no time for meditation, and conform with cold apathy to the
old prescribed forms of faith.
In spite of the oppressive July heat, in spite of occasional nightly
attacks, or rather intimidations by robber bands, I arrived full of good
courage in the Persian capital; and after I had somewhat recovered from
the fatigues of the journey at the Turkish Embassy in the cool valley
of the Shimran mountains, no one was happier than I when the cooler
weather set in, and, leaving luxury and comfort behind, I was able to
resume my adventurous route to South Persia, _i.e._, to Ispahan, Shiraz,
and Persepolis. This journey formed, so to speak, the second course of
my preparation for the expedition into Central Asia, and if I had not
gone through this course I don't know but that my perilous expedition
into Turkestan would on the whole have been a failure. When I arrived in
Teheran I was greeted with the discouraging news that a journey to
Bokhara was fraught with gigantic and unconquerable dangers, and not by
any means so easy as I had imagined, and, moreover, that in the
North-East of Persia, because of the war between Dost Mohammed and Ahmed
Shah, the journey _viâ_ Meshed and Merv or _viâ_ Herat had become
perfectly impossible. So I was obliged, in order to avoid further
inactivity, to find another opening and a new field of labour. As the
study of the Aryan languages was not at all in my programme, there
seemed no object in my going to South Persia. But I durst not break off
the hardening system I had commenced, and I had already grown so fond of
the excitement of venturesome expeditions that the dry saddle, dry
bread, and dry soil were more to my taste than all the luxury, riches,
and wealth of the hospitable Turkish Embassy. The kind reception I had
met with there secured for me, in the Persian capital, the
half-official character of an attaché to the Embassy. I gained
admittance to the houses of the aristocracy, and was also presented to
the King, and when ready to start for South Persia the Persian
Government gave me the following letter of commendation:--
"The State officials of the glorious residence as far as Shiraz are
hereby notified that the high-born and noble Reshid Effendi, a
subject of the Ottoman Government, who has come to travel in this
land, is now on his way to the Province of Fars. On account of the
friendly relations between the two States, and also because of the
harmony prescribed by the common Moslem religion, all officials of
those regions are hereby instructed to see that the traveller above
mentioned receive all due honour and respect; to protect him on the
journey and at the different stations against all injuries and
molestations.
"MIRZA SAID KHAN
"(_Minister of Foreign Affairs_).
"TEHERAN, 24th Safar, 1279."
Considering the very small consideration which even the very highest
official commands receive in the provinces, I did not attach overmuch
importance to this letter. It has, however, protected me occasionally
against suspicion.
In Ispahan and Shiraz I could, in my character of Stambul Effendi under
State protection, obtain a much more intimate knowledge of the land and
the people of Persia than falls to the lot of any other European. I
particularly enjoyed my stay at the house of Imam Djumaa of Ispahan, the
Shiite high priest at that time, to whom I was a regular problem, and
who tried in vain to penetrate my incognito. This cunning and most
skilful man, who exercised great influence, gave himself much trouble to
convert me to the Shiite sect. Evenings for disputations were organised,
in which learned Shiite Akhondes (priests) and Mollas unpacked all the
paraphernalia of their sectarian learning for my benefit; they entered
into the minutest details to prove the correctness of Shiite dogmas and
rites, they marshalled a whole army of arguments to prove the
usurpations of the first Kalifs, Abubeker, Osman, and Omar, and Ali's
irrefutable right of succession. As I had often been present at similar
discussions in the opposite--that is, in the Sunnitic--camp, I was not
afraid to put in a word to the point here and there; but when, very
closely pressed, I was at a loss for an answer, my opponents rejoiced,
and in overcoming me, the disguised European, they fancied they had
conquered all the Sunnites. Poor fools! what would have been their
feelings if they had known that through contact with a Frenghi they had
become Nedjis, _i.e._, unclean, and that they had taken all this trouble
over a declared enemy of all positive faith. In my intercourse with the
lower classes these discussions were not carried on in quite so pleasant
a manner. During the long caravan journey I was never free from their
impertinent questions; whether on the march, resting, eating or
drinking, they challenged me, and left me no peace. Even in the coolness
of the night, when I had fallen asleep seated on my slowly-trotting
donkey, I was often roughly roused and accosted with such remarks as,
"Now, then, do you mean to say that this mangy dog, called Omar, this
hideous, infernal beast, this stinking vermin, was not a usurper?
Answer, Effendi, for I tell you I have a great mind to send you down to
the infernal regions after your dirty patron-saint."
Thirteen hundred years have passed away since first the spirit of
mastery and boastfulness began to wage this barbarous, destructive war
in the name of religion--a war which has led to the shedding of oceans
of blood, and cost mountains of wreck and ruin. And here was I, a
harmless wayfarer, a follower of Voltaire and David Strauss, rudely
roused from my peaceful slumbers and forcibly dragged into stupid
arguments! It was too bad!
Indeed, my visit to South Persia, with all its glorious monuments many
thousand years old, with the graves of Hafiz and Saadi, cost me very
dearly. In my book about Persia I did not mention a tenth part of all
the sufferings, all the privations I had to bear, and yet, in spite of
all, I experienced intense joy during this expedition. Every modulation
of the beautiful South Persian dialect, the sight of the glorious
monuments of Iranian antiquity, made my bosom swell and wrapt me in a
world of delicious dreams. Never shall I forget the night of my arrival
at the ruins of Persepolis. It was bright moonlight, and I stood for
hours, transfixed in silent wonder, gazing at the gigantic monuments of
ancient culture. Then the evenings spent in company with Persian
literati, at Hafiz's grave, with music and song and the pearly goblet in
our hands, or the solemn moments of pious meditation in Saadi's
mausoleum, shall I ever forget them?
Apart from these intellectual enjoyments of a peculiar nature, the
journey to and from Shiraz, which lasted for several months, had
considerably hardened me, and given me a quite extraordinary elasticity.
I could brave wind and rain, heat and cold, without the slightest risk;
I slept in the saddle as on the softest bed, I rode on any kind of
saddle-beast over hill and dale; nay, I took special pleasure in
horsemanship--a thing which, considering my lame leg, is now
incomprehensible to me. I swung myself into the saddle of a horse in
full gallop, I mounted high-loaded mules and camels as if I had been
brought up with rope-dancers, and I felt safe in company with the
roughest specimens of humanity as if I had lived all my life with
vagabonds and robbers. Under these conditions it is not surprising that,
on returning from South Persia, I stuck to my resolution to undertake
the journey to Bokhara, if necessary _viâ_ Herat and right through the
Turkoman Steppes, and that all the words of advice, warning, and
intimidation of European and Turkish friends at Teheran were fruitless,
and left me perfectly unmoved. I thought to myself, "What can befall me
worse than what I have gone through already?" I had long since discarded
the character of the poor Effendi in which I had commenced my travels,
and, without being conscious of it, I had adopted the part of a roving
Dervish, for Dervish is the name applied to all Orientals who have not
run after earthly goods, but lead a roaming life in search of adventure,
with religion as their signboard. Now, whether I begged my bread in
Persia, in the character of a Dervish, in the daytime wandering about in
tatters, and at night in the Tekke (convent) singing hymns, to while
away the time, or whether I did the same in Middle Asia, came to much
the same thing. On the contrary, I thought in the latter portion of the
Islamic world, where I can move more freely and probably get on better
as Osmanli amongst Sunnites and Turks, better days may (possibly) be in
store for me; instead of torments and insults and scorn, I may find
honour and liberal hospitality; and so strong was my confidence in the
success of my undertaking that I began to have a perfect longing for
Central Asia. It was rather amusing to see the way in which the
Europeans at Teheran viewed my resolution, and how the opinion gained
ground that I had fallen into a fatal delusion, and that, unconscious of
danger, I was hurrying on to certain destruction. The tragic end of the
English officers, Conolly and Stoddart, who died a martyr's death at
Bokhara, was then fresh in everybody's mind. Monsieur de Blocqueville
had not long since returned from his Turkoman captivity, and the
frightful details of his experiences as prisoner under the Tekke still
resounded in our ears. Stories were told of the mysterious death of an
English officer, Captain Wyburn, who had suddenly disappeared on the
Turkoman Steppes, and not a trace of whom could be found. Other
imaginary atrocities were conjured up, and it seemed only natural that
everybody did his best to dissuade me from my purpose, and to paint a
journey into the very centre of Moslem fanaticism in the most glaring
colours. Curiously enough, my friends at the English Embassy discouraged
me less than any; and, pointing to the travels of Burnes and Dr. Wolff,
Mr. R. Th. thought that I might have a chance of success. Count
Gobineau, the French Ambassador, himself a literary man and Orientalist,
gave me but little hope; my success would not please him, for he was
filled with envy and jealousy. They were most put out at the Turkish
Embassy, where I had been so warmly recommended by the Porte, and where
they were really anxious about my fate.
I was not at all loath to leave Persia; what charm could a longer
sojourn in Iran have for me? A description of the political and social
conditions of this land, already sufficiently well known even in those
days, offered no special attraction to my literary vanity. True, the
instructive and classical works of Dr. Polak and Lord Curzon of
Kedleston had not appeared yet, but I could not have written anything
absolutely new about Persia. In my intimate intercourse with the people
of the land I was principally struck with the more intensely Oriental
character of the Government and society, and all that I saw strengthened
me in my conviction that Persia was at least a hundred years behind
Turkey, notwithstanding the greater intellectuality of the people, and
would certainly take longer to extricate itself from the pool of Asiatic
thought. Of the West and Western culture they had but very vague notions
in Persia. The young king, Nasreddin Shah, was instructed by his court
physicians, Cloquet, Polak, and Tholozan, in many points of our Western
culture, and he took a good deal of trouble to mould his surroundings
upon their suggestions. The prudish conservatism of the Orientals,
supported by the national pride and boundless vanity of the
Persians--who, recollecting the age of the Sasanides and the glorious
period of Shah Abbas II. always try to minimise the triumphs of our
civilisation, or even hold it in derision--hindered all healthy and
vigorous progress. Even the heads of the administration very seldom
knew French. In my frequent intercourse with Mirza Said Khan, then
Minister of Foreign Affairs, a native Persian of the old school, I often
received amusing proofs of this ignorance and obstinacy. He lacked even
the elementary knowledge of the geography and history of Europe, and all
that I told him of the power and might of some of the European States
was nonsense in his eyes, and he used to say reproachfully "If Europe is
really so great, why does it want to enrich itself by commerce with
Persia, and why does it force itself upon us?" Mirza Yahya Khan, the
first adjutant of the king, who knew French and was somewhat enlightened
by his travels in Europe, used to laugh aloud at the ignorance of the
minister; but even he allowed the West but few prerogatives, and always
boasted of the greater intellectual endowments and sagacity of the
Persian people in general. With the scholars and literati I could not
get on at all. Referring to their truly beautiful literature of
antiquity, they used to speak with poetic ecstasy about the superiority
and unequalled beauty of Eastern thought, and were especially proud of
their philosophers. "If your thinkers are really so great and sublime,"
I was often told, "why then do you translate our Sadi, Hafiz, and
Khayyám? We have no desire for _your_ classics." These people are happy
in their Persian microcosm, and I well recollect the disputations I used
to have with the Akhondes (learned). These thickly turbaned priests
struck me as being remarkably liberal-minded in religious matters. They
spoke about Mohammed and his doctrine without any fanaticism, from a
purely historical point of view, and did not appear shocked at the most
daring hypothesis or suggestion, which surprised me very much, for
amongst the Sunnites of Turkey and Central Asia such discussions would
have been called blasphemous.
Looked at from this point of view Persia was highly interesting to me,
and if I had not had my mind full of plans for travel I could perhaps
have turned the advantage of my incognito to better account by a
comparative study of individual Oriental nations. But it was no good, I
was compelled to go forward; and while in this excited frame of mind I
accidentally made the acquaintance, at the Turkish Embassy, of some
Tartar pilgrims on their way back from Mecca to Central Asia. When I
acquainted the members of the Turkish Embassy with my intention to
travel in company with these frightful-looking people, half-starved,
tattered zealots, covered with dirt and sores, one can imagine the
surprise of those kind-hearted folks. The ambassador, Haidar Effendi, a
particularly high-minded man and extremely tolerant in matters of
religion, was quite upset about it. He threatened to use force; but when
he saw that all his expostulations had not the slightest effect upon me,
he did his utmost to minimise the danger of my undertaking. He called
the leaders of the beggar-band before him, gave them rich presents and
recommended me to their special care and protection; he also gave me an
authorised passport, bearing the name of Hadji Mehemmed Reshid Effendi,
with the official signature and seal. Seeing that I had never been in
Mecca, and had therefore no legal right to the title of Hadji (pilgrim),
this official lie may be viewed in various lights. But it saved my life,
and I owe my success to it; for this pass, in the critical moments of my
journey incognito, supplied the necessary documentary evidence. The
official document bearing the Tugra (Sultan's signature) is at all times
an object of pious veneration to the Turkomans. They recognise in the
Osmanlis their brethren in the faith, and the simple children of the
Steppes came from far and near to behold the holy Tugra, and after
performing the prescribed ablutions, to press the sacred sign against
their brow. In Khiva and in Bokhara, where the official sign was better
known, it elicited still more respect. In fact, I may honestly say that
I owe my success to this passport; and when one considers the
magnanimous tolerance which must have prompted these Mohammedan
dignitaries and representatives of the Sultan to describe a European and
a freethinker as a Mussulman pilgrim, I think the deception may be
condoned. An official of humane Christian Europe would scarcely have
shown as much generosity to a Mohammedan! After Haidar Effendi, I found
another kind friend in Dr. Bimsenstein, an Austrian by birth, who acted
as physician to the Legation at Teheran. He seemed much concerned about
me, but when he saw that even his fatherly advice was of no avail, and
that the prospect of a martyr's death did not frighten me, he called me
into his dispensary and gave me three pills, saying, "These are
strychnine pills. I give them to you to spare you the agonies of a slow
martyr's death. When you see that preparations are being made to torture
you to death, and when you cannot see a ray of hope anywhere, then
swallow these pills; they will shorten your agony." With tears the
kind-hearted man gave me the fateful globules, which I carefully hid in
the wadding of my upper garment. They have been my sheet-anchor, and
many a time when in moments of danger I felt the little hard
protuberances in the wadding, I have derived comfort from them. My
valuables consisted of a silver watch, the face of which had been
transformed into a Kiblenuma, _i.e._, a compass, or more correctly, an
indicator or hand to show the position of Mecca and Medina, and a few
ducats, hidden between the soles of my shoes, which I only had occasion
to extricate twice during the whole of my journey. "Cantabit vacuus
coram latrone viator." So I was safe against the greed of my
fellow-travellers and any other robbers. I wore my very oldest Persian
clothes, and in every respect made myself as much as possible in outward
appearance like my beggarly companions. So I started on my adventurous
expedition with a cheerful mind, and turning my back upon Teheran, the
last connection with European memories, I set my face towards the
Caspian Sea.
And now in the evening of my life,--the glow of enthusiasm vanished, and
heart and head cooled down almost to freezing-point,--looking back upon
this wild folly of my younger days, I cannot but condemn the whole
affair as absolutely unjustifiable and opposed to all common sense. The
first part of my plan and its execution were not matters of calculation
and premeditation, but a leap in the dark, a rushing forward at random.
I quite forgot to consider whether my physical strength would hold out
in the unusual struggle, and whether with my lame foot I should be able
to get over large distances _per pedes apostolorum_. Also I had not
sufficiently taken into account the suspicion of Central Asiatic
tyrants, and forgot that Bokhara was not only a hotbed of hyperzealous
fanaticism, but also of the most consummate villains in the world. I had
not the faintest idea that I should be watched day and night by numerous
spies, reporters, and officious hirelings, who followed me in the lonely
Steppes, in the bazaars, the streets, the mosques, and the convents, and
took note of every word, every movement of mine. I never thought that my
European features would at once attract attention among the masses of
pure Ural-Altaic and genuine Iranian type, and form a permanent
suspicion against me; and least of all did I think that, notwithstanding
my versatility, my well-tempered nervous system, and my experience in
the morals and customs of Islam, prying eyes were always busy trying to
look through my incognito. I had had no idea of the fiendish cunning and
subtilty of the Bokhariots, and the frightful crudeness of the Osbeg
court at Khiva. How could I have known all this, seeing that these
countries and people, cut off for centuries from the other Islamic
States, and perfectly unknown to Western nations, still continued in the
stage of ancient almost primitive culture and ignorance, and had nothing
in common with the civilisation of the Turks, Persians, Kurds, and
Arabs, with whom I was familiar? With every step I took into this
strange world my astonishment and surprise and also my fear grew. I
realised that I had entered into a perfectly strange and unknown world
of ideas, that I had undertaken a most risky thing, that my former
experiences would avail me nothing here, and that I had to gather up all
my strength to escape the dangers on all sides. The preservation of my
incognito was a tremendous mental and physical exertion. As for the
former, I could not and dare not relax for one moment during the whole
of my journey; by day or by night, asleep or awake, alone or in company,
I had always to remember my _rôle_, be ever on my guard, and never by
the slightest mistake or neglect betray my identity. I used mostly at
night, when all were asleep round me, to practise certain grimaces and
contortions of eyes and face, I tried to imitate the gesticulations
which in the daytime I had observed from my travelling companions; and
so great is human adaptability to foreign customs and habits that within
two months I was in fashion, manners, and speech a faithful copy of my
Hadji companions, and in the eyes of ordinary Turkomans passed for a
regular Khokandian or Kashgarian. Of course my poverty-stricken and
dirty appearance greatly assisted the delusion. In the seams and cracks
of the face sand and dirt had collected, and formed quite a crust, which
could not be removed by the prescribed ablutions, for the simple reason
that as we were often short of water in the Steppe, I had to take refuge
in Teyemmun, _i.e._ (a substitute), washing with sand. My beard grew
rugged and coarse, my eyes rolled wilder, and my gait in the awkward
full garments, perhaps also because of my frequent and long rides, had
become as unwieldy, waddling and uncomfortable as if I had lived from
early youth with Mongol and Turkish tribes. I cannot and need not hide
the fact that at first these physical discomforts were very irksome to
me, and cost me many a pang. To dip one's fingers into a pot of rice,
which for want of fat is cooked with tallow-candle, and in which the
Tartars plunged their filthy, wounded fists, cannot exactly be
described as one of the most pleasurable methods of feeding, nor is it a
treat to spend the night squeezed in among a row of sleeping, snoring
beggars. Both are equally undesirable, but when in these predicaments I
recalled the sufferings and privations of my early life, the comparison
made me realise that the European mendicant has much the advantage over
his Central Asiatic comrade, for the sufferings of hunger, thirst, and
vermin are far worse in Turkestan than they ever could be in Europe.
What I had to suffer from this last evil, the lice, which multiply in
the most appalling manner in Central Asia, passes all description, and,
objectionable as the subject may be, I must try to give some idea of the
manner in which I endeavoured to rid myself of this pest, if only for a
short space of time. With the Dervish the catching of these insects
forms part of the toilet, and is also looked upon as a kind of
after-dinner enjoyment. One begins by using the thumb-nails as a weapon
of defence against these intruding guests; and the picture of various
groups engaged in search and slaughter was sometimes intensely
ludicrous. In the second stage of the cleansing process the garment
under treatment is held over the red-hot cinders, and the animals,
stunned by the fierce heat, die a fiery death with a peculiar crackling
noise. If this _auto-da-fé_ is not procurable, the garment is strewn all
over with sand, and exposed to the scorching rays of the sun. The vermin
are thus invited to exchange their lower cooler quarters for the upper
warmer ones, and once there they can easily be shaken off. When neither
fire nor sand is available the garment is placed near an anthill, and
the troublesome insects are left to the mercy of the ants, who soon make
their way into the smallest crevices and apertures and carry off their
prey. Curiously enough, this pest is far worse in winter than in summer,
for when, on my journey between Herat and Meshed, I lay huddled up in
one corner of my bed, these creatures, always in search of heat,
collected wherever the heat of my body was greatest, and no sooner had I
turned from the right on to the left side, than these detestable animals
at once instituted a formal migration and took possession of the heated
portion of my body. Now I understood for the first time why in the
Jewish Holy Scriptures the plague of lice is mentioned second after that
of the water turned into blood. Next to this plague I suffered much from
the fatigues of the journey. First of all there was the scorching heat
on the plain of the Balkan mountains up to the Khiva oasis, where the
thermometer, as I learned afterwards from the reports of Colonel
Markusoff, rises fifty and fifty-two degrees Réaumur, and where the lack
of drinkable water causes the traveller unheard-of sufferings. One
inhales fire, so to speak, the skin shrivels visibly, and one is almost
blinded by the vibrations of the air. From eight o'clock in the morning
till three or four in the afternoon it is like being in a baker's oven,
and the torture is aggravated when one has to sit huddled together and
cross-legged in the Kedjeve (or basket) on the back of a camel, stinking
of sweat and sores. Sometimes, when the poor beast could go no farther
through the thick sand, I had to climb down from my perch and go for
long distances on foot. On account of my lame leg I had to lean on a
stick with my right hand, and on one of these tramps my right arm became
so terribly swollen that I suffered great pain for several days. Apart
from these inconveniences, I enjoyed excellent health, which rather
surprised me, as the half-baked bread freely mixed with sand, the best
we could make in the Steppes, was apt to be somewhat indigestible. So
much for the magic effect of an outdoor life and the excitement of an
adventurous expedition!
And yet all these physical sufferings were light as compared with the
mental and nervous strain I underwent. Every look, every gesture, every
sign, no matter how innocent, and even in the circle of my most intimate
friends, I viewed with apprehension, lest it might contain some hidden
allusion to my incognito. I tried to hide my anxiety behind the mask of
exuberant hilarity, and generally managed to lead the conversation on to
some irrelevant subject. But I found out afterwards that these harmless
folks never dreamed of unmasking me. In their absolute ignorance of
Europeanism they had never for a moment doubted the genuineness of my
Effendi character. Fortunately, precautionary measures were only
necessary when I was in a town, in Bokhara or Samarkand, for amongst the
country folks and the nomads, the latter of whom had never seen a
European face to face, they were quite superfluous. The successful
preservation of my incognito among these simple children of Nature made
me indulge in the wildest flights of fancy. I remember one mad idea, the
impracticability of which did not at all strike me at the time, but
which must now seem ridiculous to everybody, even to myself. I had
reached the height of my reputation with the Turkomans of the Gorghen
and the Atrek. They looked upon me as a saint from distant Rum (the
west); young and old flocked round me to receive a blessing, or even a
sacred breath, as a preservative against diseases. One day an old
greybeard, who had spent his whole life in plunder and murder,
discreetly advanced towards me, and in all earnest made me the following
proposition: "Sheik-him (my Sheikh)," he said, "why do you not place
yourself at the head of a great plundering expedition? Under your
blessed guidance we might organise an attack on a large scale into
heretic Shiite (Persia). I am good for 5,000 lances; steeled heroes and
fiery horses could do much with Allah's help, and assisted by a Fatiha
(prayer) from you." Now the reader will naturally suppose that I treated
this proposal as a huge joke. Nothing of the kind. The words of the old
Turkoman wolf did not sound at all absurd to me; they only required a
little consideration. I thought of the unexampled cowardice and state of
confusion of the Persian army, and knowing the wild impetuosity, the
rapaciousness, and the audacity of the Turkomans, one of whom was a
match for ten Persians, the thought flashed through my brain, "Stop, why
not undertake this romantic exploit? All the way from Sharud the Persian
frontiers are exposed; 5,000 Turkomans can easily take the field against
10,000 Persians and more. And where will the Shah find so many soldiers
all in a hurry? In Teheran I shall find some adventurous Italian and
French officers who will probably like to join me. In any case an attack
upon the capital can be successfully accomplished, and who knows, I
might possess myself of the Persian throne if only for a few days!" The
fact that it would be no easy matter to keep 5,000 Turkomans within the
bounds of discipline, and that in the face of European politics my
success would at best be but a midsummer night's dream--all this
troubled me not one whit; so deeply had I plunged into the atmosphere of
mediæval life around me, and so far did my heated fancy carry me back
into the regions of past ages!
In places where my incognito had to stand the test with people who, on
their journeys through India and Turkey, had come into contact with
Europeans, I had the hardest battle to fight, and was often in great
danger. There I was not treated with the humble reverence and admiration
which is due to a foreign Hadji and divine. On the contrary, they
questioned me about my nationality, the aim and object of my journey,
and even the fittest and readiest answers could not banish their
suspicion and doubt. In this respect my adventure with the Afghan on the
journey to Khiva will ever remain vivid in my mind. He was a Kandahari
who, during the British occupation of 1840, had escaped the English
criminal law; he had spent some time in the Afghan colony on the Caspian
Sea, and afterwards had wandered about for many years in Khiva. He would
insist that, in spite of my knowledge of the languages of Islam, I was a
disguised European, and therefore a dangerous spy. At first I treated
him with every possible mark of respect and politeness; I flattered his
vanity, but all in vain. The scoundrel would not be taken off his guard,
and one evening I overheard him say to the Kervanbashi (head of the
caravan): "I bet you he is a Frenghi or a Russian spy, and with his
pencil he makes a note of all the mountains and valleys, all the streams
and springs, so that the Russians can later on come into the land
without a guide to rob you of your flocks and children. In Khiva, thanks
to the precautions of the Khan, the rack will do its part, and the
red-hot iron will soon show what sort of metal he is made of." Never to
move a muscle under such amiable discourses, or to betray one's feelings
by any uneasy expression in one's eye, that mighty mirror of the soul,
is, in truth, no easy task. I managed, however, to preserve my cold
indifference on this and similar occasions; but one evening, during our
passage through the Steppe, the Afghan was quietly smoking his opium
pipe in the night camp. By the glimmer of the coals on his water-pipe I
met his dull, intoxicated gaze, and a diabolical idea took possession of
me. "This man is planning my destruction, and he can effect it; shall I
throw one of my strychnine pills into his dish of tea, which he is even
now holding in his shaky hand? I could thus save myself, and accomplish
my purpose." A horrible thought which reminds one of Eugene Aram in
Bulwer's novel. I took the pill from the wadding of my cloak, and held
it for some time between my fingers close to the edge of the dish. The
deadly silence of the night and the opium fumes which held this man
under their spell seemed to favour my devilish scheme, but when in my
distraction I gazed upwards and saw the brilliantly shining canopy of
heaven, the magic beauty of the stars overmastered me; the first rays of
the rising moon fell upon me--I stayed my hand, ashamed of meditating a
deed unworthy of a civilised man, and quickly hid the fateful pill again
in the lining of my Dervish cloak.
The continuance of my dangerous position eased my task in some
respects, and custom makes many things bearable. Practice had taught me
to sit still for hours, immovable like a statue, perhaps just moving my
lips as if in silent prayer, while the spies sent to Bokhara to find me
out, freely discussed my identity, and speculated upon the enigma of my
nationality and my faith. The danger of growing red or pale, or of
betraying my internal struggle by a look, had long since ceased for me.
I had so thoroughly accustomed myself to my character of pseudo-Dervish,
that the emotions connected with the pious demeanour of those
individuals came quite spontaneously to me. When my companions of the
Steppe consulted the oracle of stones or sticks about the issue of our
dangerous campaign through the Khalata desert, I stooped down as curious
as the rest, and watched the configuration of the stones or sticks as
anxiously as the superstitious natives. They had even assigned to me a
greater power of divination than to any of the others, and hearkened
diligently to my explanation. When, arrived at the grave of the native
saint, Bahaeddin, near Bokhara, we performed the customary prayers, I
could hold out with my fellow-travellers from eight in the morning till
late at night. I prayed, sang, shouted aloud, groaned, and raved in
pious contrition with the best of them. I wonder even now whence I
procured the uninterrupted flow of tears which I shed on those
occasions, and how I could play my part in this comedy for hours
together without betraying the slightest emotion or perturbation. I
must confess that Nature has endowed me with a fair dose of mimicry, a
quality which Napoleon III. once in a conversation commended me for.
From my earliest youth I had learned to imitate the outward expression
of various kinds of people; thus I had accustomed myself to wear
alternately the mask of Jew, Christian, Sunnite, and Shiite, although
any form of positive religion was objectionable to me. I believe,
however, it was not so much my mimetic faculty as the instinct of
self-preservation and the consciousness of ever-present danger which
enabled me to bring my venturesome experiment to a satisfactory end. The
fear of death is at all times a hideous beast, which glares at us and
shows its teeth, and although one may get used to its presence in course
of time, and even become blunted and hardened, yet this monster, fear of
death, never quite loses its influence over us, and if we are blest with
a strong nervous system, we can in the face of it do almost impossible
things.
It would lead me too far were I to dwell here upon some of the exciting
and critical incidents of my incognito, examples of which have been
given in my earlier works. It has often been laid to my charge by
conscientious critics that I have been too reserved, too brief, in the
accounts of my travels. So, for instance, the learned Jules Mohl
writes[1]: "M. Vambéry est un voyageur singulièrement modeste, qui ne
raconte de ses aventures que ce qui est indispensable à son histoire, et
l'impression que donne son ouvrage est, qu'il ne raconte pas tout ce qui
lui arrive." In my _Sketches of Central Asia_ I have entered a little
more into details, but even they are far from exhaustive. The compass of
an autobiography is likewise too small for this. Self-glorification does
not please me, and where I have occasionally been a little more
circumstantial in my narrative, it has been for the purpose of lessening
the surprise which my incognito travels called forth in Europe, by
showing the reasons for and the natural effects of certain things. Many
well-disposed critics even have doubted the verity of some of my
experiences, which to the European _pur sang_ are simply incredible. But
those who have read the story of my childhood and early youth, who
realise that up to my eighteenth year I hardly ever knew what it was to
have enough to eat, that I went about insufficiently clothed and exposed
to miseries of all sorts, will not see in my adventures anything so very
marvellous. From a very early age I have had to act contrary to my inner
convictions; in religion, in society, in politics, I have often had to
pretend in order to attain my object. Nothing is more natural than that
when in Central Asia I had to fight with want and distress, with
perplexities of every form and shape, I should come out victorious. No
European before me has ever attempted to assume the incognito of a
mendicant friar, for Burckhardt, Burton, and Snouck Hurgronje in Mecca,
Wolff and Burnes in Bokhara, and Conolly in the Turkoman Steppes,
travelled as Asiatics with plenty of means, or in an official character.
Few, no doubt, have had such bodily fatigues to bear, but few, perhaps
none, of my colleagues have gone through such a hard school in their
tender childhood. The conventional modesty of scholars and writers has
always been irksome to me, for virtue in the garb of a lie is
disgusting. I speak quite openly and honestly when I say that my
adventures in Central Asia will appear little remarkable if regarded as
the continuation of my experiences in Turkey and Persia on an
intensified scale; and these latter, again, were in form and character
closely allied to my struggles and trials as a little Jew boy, a
mendicant student, and a private tutor. I have often been asked how I
could bear the constant fear of death, and if I were not sometimes
overcome by the thought of certain destruction. But one can accustom
one's self to a life in constant fear of death as well as to anything
else. It has disturbed me only when the crisis came all too suddenly,
and I had no time to collect my thoughts and plan means of escape. Such
was the case when, in the Khalata Steppe, I was near dying of thirst,
and being in a high fever I swooned. Then, again, at the time of my
audience with the Emir at Samarkand, one of the court officials touched
the nape of my neck, and remarked to his companion, "Unfortunately I
have left my knife at home to-day," which may have been quite a casual
remark. On the whole I have preserved my equanimity, nay, even my
cheerfulness, in the most critical moments, for high-spirited youth does
not easily give way to despair; it has a store of confidence which only
disease or age can diminish.
FOOTNOTE:
[1] _Journal Asiatique_, March-April, 1865, p. 371.
The Return to Europe